


Stained Glass

by Ruto



Category: Sengoku Basara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:49:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruto/pseuds/Ruto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the definition of purity. Involves Mitsunari's SB3 red route. Yoshitsugu POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stained Glass

What is the nature of purity?

Purity lives outside of judgment. Purity is a fox feasting on the carcass of its kill. It is the torrential rainstorm that swallows cities whole and leaves but a blank slate in its wake. It is an inviting canvas waiting to be stained with ink.

It does not know, nor does it understand.

And purity is bright and blinding, molten hot to the touch. It scalds, it burns, and it stabs like a brilliant blade. And purity is none the wiser. How can you scold what is pure? It is too raw and wild to be admonished no matter how long it has soaked in another’s blood.

It does not lie, and it does not deceive. By its nature it cannot.

Mitsunari is pure, Yoshitsugu knows. That is his brilliance. 

That is why he can wreak more misery than any other. 

He is a hail of blazing meteors. He is a thousand sharp edges of broken glass scattered across the floor, and just as transparent. He is a battered puppet who dances only to the sweet tune of loyalty and the cacophony of blistering, righteous rage.

Mitsunari is a pure and beautiful thing, thinks Yoshitsugu, as he watches his -- _Mitsunari’s_ \-- misery rain down from afar. He is no more guilty than that storm of dark stars. He is no more guiltless. He simply is.

Who blames the sun for burning? Who blames the stars for falling? Or a blade for its sharpness, a fox for its hunger -- ?

\-- He is feasting on a carcass. Maybe his hunger that borders on starvation will be sated at last, he thinks.

Or maybe this carcass was too rotten from the very beginning.

Maybe pure things just weren’t meant to live in this world without suffering.

Yoshitsugu stares deep into the world reflected in his prayer beads -- at the (once?) pure thing he sees staggering his way towards a place that will wash the blood from his hands, towards ghosts, and redemption he will never find -- and thinks --

That the nature of purity must be misery.


End file.
